Another Choice
by Missy the Least
Summary: AU of XMFC, based on 'The Choice' by ChristianGateFan, Charles is recovering from his captivity when a stranger brings news about Shaw.  Still a tale of redemtion and hope, not just for our boys, but for humans as well.  Cherik, non-con & torture, etc.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: PLEASE READ. This is based upon the events of ChristianGateFan's fic The Choice, and this present story will make more sense if that tale is read first, but I believe that this can stand alone without that. This is a tale of redemption and hope, but before we get to the light at the end, we have to start at the midnight beginning and go through the tunnel to reach the dawn. So Charles (and less so, Erik) is put though the ringer once again, but our heroes will triumph. WWII history lessons included for free.

Normal Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of the X-Men, said creations are property of Marvel/Fox/Stan Lee/Jack Kirby, et als.

Many thanks to ChristianGateFan, for her inspiration and permission to walk a bit in her world, and to ChristianGateFan and WingedWolf21 (and my friend Gene) for their invaluable assistance in beta-ing.

REVISED - 3-11-2012

At the wise suggestion of random4ever, I am adding this link to the origianl story 'The Choice' by ChristianGateFan

.net/s/7413258/1/The_bChoice_b

and a small summary, so you know where this tale is coming from:

Events are much like XMFC, until they are at the mansion for training and Emma is broken out of custody and back with Shaw. Charles & Erik are kidnapped and held by Shaw in a secret location. He hires a bunch of men (who may or may not be under the influence of Emma) to act as guards, telling them to torture (but not permanently injure or kill) the pair, and then gives our boys a choice: the torture stops if (a) they join him or (b) one tells Shaw to kill the other (the remaining partner goes free). For 10 months they are tortured, until Charles manages to trick Shaw, making him believe that Charles is dead, so both are returned to the mansion (Erik swearing vengence of course). At this point, Shaw believes that Erik will hate humans forever because of Charles, and that Erik will fall into his clutches eventually.

What no one has anticipated, is that one of the guards has a conscience and a soul, and will do anything to pay his debt.

But before we can see what he will do to redeem himself, we need to see how he got there, and see Charles' captivity from his perspective: "To crooked eyes, truth may wear a wry face." Gandalf, Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

* * *

><p>Prologue<p>

- It's the same every night.

He's in a white place, and before him, lays his Angel. His beautiful, beautiful Angel. Dark dark chocolate brown hair, falling in waves and slight curls, thick and silky; he could spend a day doing nothing but running his fingers through the strands. Palest skin; his mother's finest china was no lighter, and he's certain that his Angel would glow in the moonlight. If there was moonlight. Body, perfectly proportioned, toned, yielding, yet there is strength hidden beneath the too soft flesh. Limbs that move with a dancer's grace, or perhaps a runner's poise, partially on the ground, partially above it. Lips, red red, so red, like a child eating a cherry Popsicle, begging to be kissed. Ahh, but the eyes! Eyes of a royal, celestial blue; bluer than the heavens, bluer than any lake, than the sea. Eyes that see all that you are, all that you might become. Eyes that can lay you bare with a glance. Angel eyes. They draw him in and hold him, ensorcelled. And always, those eyes beg, plead.

_yesyesyesmyAngelmydarling! yesIshallgiveyou whatIcraveIlustIdesire youwillbewithmealways andyouwillneverreturntothesky..._

* * *

><p>- Every night, unchanging, the same.<p>

He takes his Angel, _claims _his Angel. He claims those red lips, burning with sweat, with salt, heat and the tang of metal, of iron. His tongue swoops in, his Angel must open to him, and he savors dominance in each swipe. The taste of his Angel is a spice he cannot name, a wine of unknown vintage. He only knows it makes him drunk, powerful.

He claims the curve of an angelic neck, marks the pale pale skin like a footprint on snow; red bruise marking what is his.

His Angel rises to meet him, perhaps to fly; but that he cannot allow. His Angel must stay here, here in the mortal realm.

So he claims his Angel, holding, grasping, bruising, but with delight, as he watches his Angel squirm in the game, the play of 'trying to escape', when there is no escape.

He is naked now too, his body on fire for his Angel, so he must feed his lovely Angel...but Angels do not eat. When did his Angel last eat? Lips of roses and blood part, slow, grudging (grudging? noNOno) just a tease, to be tight, the better to suck and swallow hard. He is hard and fast, and the gasps and gurgles of his Angel drive his hips down and in, manhood enveloped within those ruddy ruby lips, releasing just enough to fill his Angel with the taste of him.

He does not, cannot come just yet.

He must claim his Angel, claim his prize. Claim his winnings.

He drags his manhood over that perfect body, trailing lust. His Angel pants and wheezes, as his dick touches angelic breasts, coating sensitive nipples with mingled angel spit and mortal juice until they are hot and hard, until the moans drive him to where he needs to be.

He never knew Angels had naughty bits.

He is powerful, so powerful, he can do anything. Even tease an Angel to madness.

His Angel is writhing beneath him, so hard that he cannot play using his hands, lest even chained, his Angel will slip away. Where did the chains come from?

He lets his manhood take over, caressing, poking, prodding, rubbing. The moans are everywhere, reverberating, a wordless plea...

He plunges in, hard HARD, like a siege engine, like a battering ram. His Angel is brave and tough, can take it, can take anything he dishes out.

His Angel screams.

He lances in and out, as hard and as fast as a mere mortal can; then he finds the spot.

His Angel screams.

He has found the sweet spot, and to please himself (it pleases his Angel doesn't it? You can tell can't you?), he nails it, and nails it and nails it.

His Angel cannot stop screaming.

His Angel orgasms, an eruption of seed everywhere; he cannot hold back now, and adds his shouts to the din.

They are both shaking now; his Angel is flushed red, God He looks adorable when He's embarrassed.

He?

His Angel is crying; why is He crying?

HE?

He wants to kiss Him, to stop the tears, to ask what's wrong, perhaps He's hurt?

* * *

><p>- Every night, this happens.<p>

He is cold, so very cold, shivering on an equally cold hard floor. He is naked, hands chained above his head, unable to sit up. Drugs burning through his system, slowing him even more, robbing him of what little strength that constant malnourishment did not take. Worst of all, his power, his Talent, his birthright, his telepathy, has been muted by those same drugs. He feels the vibrations of steps in the hall, the door opening: his tormentors are back. He knows what comes next, the foul game they play, more amusing to his guards than whips and clubs and blood; he's helpless, and they all know it...

All his guards have had him, save the youngest. He looks up and sees: _himself_. Horrified, he understand now; he has switched places with his Angel, and now he will see the truth.

He is struck first by how old he looks; rough and unkempt, he looks closer to 30 than the 20 he is. His black hair is slicked back with Brillcreme, his dark eyes are pools of night, filled only with violent hunger. He's a bit taller than his Angel, but blockier and stockier, more earth-bound, mud to his Angel's air.

He is stunned, he cannot believe it. It can't be true. This isn't him. He wouldn't beat, torment, torture, _rape _someone that he loved.

Would he?

Everything he does, everything he is, stands on its head.

Loving passionate kisses? Searing, clamping, choking, bruising...bites so hard his Angel bleeds, his breath so foul with cigarette smoke his Angel gags. The 'love' bite will ache for days.

Tender embraces? His hands are no better than callused paws, claws, talons; bruising and ripping, all but dislocating arms from their gentle owner's shoulders.

Erotic Angel sounds? His Angel choking half to death and trying not to vomit, the taste of him bitter and nausea-inducing.

The rest? No NO NO he refuses he will not, nononononoNONONO, please please please spare me spare us what have I done? what have we done? we've never hurt you, please have mercy please I beg please don't touch don't touch don't touch nonono NONONOOOO it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts OHGODITHURTS nononono donthurt him dont hurt him please spare him! i'll do what you want what you need take me i'll be what you want do what you want i'lldoit i'll do it doitdoit ohgodohgod nono i'm coming i'm comingcomingcoming

* * *

><p>- Every. Single. Night.<p>

He can hear the others now. The laughter. The jeers. The clapping. Their 'captain', nicknamed "Swede", pounds him on the back: "You did it, kid, that was a real good one! You win the six-pack."

He wakes every night, his scream the echo of his Angel's agony, the nightmare that is no dream but a memory, Swede's laughter ringing in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1 - A debt to be paid

It was a year ago. A year since the man who was no Man, (on that, all were agreed), since his Angel died.

The nightmare began that first night they were paid and told that since the one prisoner was dead and the other released, there was no more work, and the facility would be closed. But Shaw had been impressed, and told Swede that if he needed guards again, he'd rehire them all. Swede had cautioned them all not to speak of their experience to anyone: "This was a hush-hush government thing, see? We were lucky to get in on this, so don't blow it."

By then, he knew Swede was fool; they were lucky to be alive. They were expendable and Shaw did not keep them alive out of kindness. But six bodies of men with relatives and friends in the small Montana community would cause talk. Shaw, he figures, could not afford to draw attention to himself. Moreover, Shaw really did need them as hired hands; he did not have enough people, 'his own kind' to cover all bases. So long as they said nothing, Shaw would have the extra tools he needed to move forward with his plans.

He only knew this, because his Angel had 'projected' an entire not-so-angelic life in His final hours, and his Angel's drugs had worn off enough to allow him to accidentally receive this gift of knowledge. The moment he'd been told they had finally broken the tall Jewish mutant, that he'd begged for the other's death, he had volunteered, had insisted, on being the one to care for him at the end. For the first time, he saw what 10 months of torture had done to his Angel, saw what he had refused to acknowledge before: the jutting ribs, loss of muscle tone, the pressure sores, the half healed scars, the blood everywhere. He had bathed Him tenderly, made Him clean and presentable, but he could do nothing else. He longed to talk to Him, to kiss Him, to make love to Him (not as a bet or a torment, but as a comfort and a pleasure _for Him_), to beg on his knees for forgiveness, but he didn't dare.

So, he took his pay, thanked Swede, went home, got drunk, and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

><p>After a month, he couldn't take it anymore. He had to leave, to go, somewhere, anywhere.<p>

Some place that he could leave what he had become behind.

He told his mother he was leaving, leaving to find a better job, maybe go to school with the money he'd earned.

He told his father the truth.

His mother told him to write often, phone when he'd found a place to settle and to take care of himself.

His father, a World War II veteran of Bataan and the Japanese POW camps, told him he was going to Hell; but that first, he had a debt to pay, with only one person to pay it to.

So he was going to pay his debt to one Erik Lehnsherr.

* * *

><p>He became a hobo, riding the rails. He stopped when he could go no further, looking for whatever honest jobs he could get, and asking everywhere he went, if a friend of his had passed through...<p>

He headed East, always East. Some odd instinct told him that his Angel was like the Morning Star, and would be found only where the Sun rises.

* * *

><p>His first look at his new job is jaw-dropping; literally. There is a castle, a CASTLE, something out of a fairytale, sitting at the end of a mile long driveway, with windows and brick and ivy and towers and architectural flourishes he can't even name. Stunned, he turns to his ride and asks: "Mr. Johnson, what IS this place? We're still in New York, right?"<p>

There was a chuckle. "Fella, don't sweat it. The place is grand, I'll grant ya, but the young man who owns it, is the salt of the earth, just like his dad. And we won't be workin' much in the living spaces. We're for the basement, expandin'."

" 'Expand -' "

"They're buildin' a school; they need lockers, indoor gym, labs, such like. But don't ask too much; just do the jobs I'll give ya, and if ya make good, there's a bonus for sure. M'boy's generous with his money, not like..." and the driver, his new boss, trails off, only to add: "Enough jawin', time to get to work."

And with that, the lanky contractor parks the truck and hops out of the cab, already addressing the other workers who had followed him to this locale, spilling out of the convoy of trucks and vans. But before he can do much more than bring the group to order, a young spindly dark haired teen in glasses and a lab coat, followed by a pretty blonde girl are marching out of the front door, arms full of blueprints. The girl obviously knows the older man well; she all but jumps into his arms, "Uncle Carl! God, it's been too long", while the young man grins shyly and waits his turn.

"Little Birdie, my, ya've grown! And this is that young scientist yer brother was goin' on about?"

"This is Hank, and he's a genius."

"Oh is he now? He'll have to convince me. How are ya, young man."

While the greetings between the two men are exchanged, Johnson's Excavating and Construction's newest hire stands back and takes in the scene. The young scientist quickly shows that he knows what is needed, while his employer surveys the plans and makes suggestions. The young woman turns and addresses the workers (including him) and says: "Hi, I'm Raven, and I'd like to show you all where you'll be staying. Please follow me."

They follow her to what was clearly once the stables and barn (big enough to hold a herd of cows), partially converted to a garage (parking some of the most expensive cars he's ever seen anywhere outside a magazine), up to the second story, to a clean, comfortable barracks, large enough for them all. The young woman continues to chat, giving them vital information such as the location of the bathroom and kitchen. While she speaks, he picks the last bunk, and looks out the window nearby. The sun has barely cleared the trees, and the grounds are filled with the glow of a new day, and for the first time in a year, he feels at peace.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, 'favorited', and 'alerted'. Specific mentions go to Kehenia (and I have a bit of funny in this chapter, more in the upcoming one), xLiving-in-a-Dreamworldx, Inibelg, kunaialchemist13, Bishielurfer, Flo des bois, neah-vearn, and special thanks to ChristianGateFan and WingedWolf21.

As usual, I do not own the X-Men.

Chapter 2 - What Goes Around

Six weeks later, his boss is very pleased; the excavations have been going more smoothly than anticipated; so smoothly, they have already been pouring concrete, well ahead of schedule. Turns out, one of the students currently living with Miss Raven has some digging chops and is helping Mr. Johnson get though controlled explosions twice as fast as normal. Or at least, that's the explanation; he knows better.

He smiles to himself. The blond kid with the cocky grin is one of HIS kind, HIS people; no other way to explain all that earth moved without tapping into the stock of explosives. Or the amount of fill removed in a day, every day. Or the way that so many bits and pieces of the metal reinforcement beams are falling into place overnight, almost like magic. This is a place for mutants; he can feel it in his bones. This is a place his Angel would have loved, been right at home in...he shakes his head, puzzled. Why does it always feel like he's been here before, like he knows that if he walked so far into the woods, he'd find a small lake and the perfect fishing hole? As if he knows every rake in the gardener's shed? How does he know there are some rooms filled with warmth and laughter and some rooms to be avoided, when he's not been further into the house than the servants' kitchen?

And why is he so calm, so content, so happy here? Yes, he's been well treated. People are kind here, folks like Miss Raven look at him when they speak, smile, act like he is just the same as they are...just as good.

Even though he isn't.

And the pay is more than he's ever made; the Boss was right about their employer being generous. There is enough money that he'd be able to go for a while and just search...

After all, New York is a big place.

But that still isn't the reason, isn't why he is so filled with peace...

* * *

><p>It had been his first night in a strange place, so he knew it was coming. He'd learned to control the screaming from the dreams, learned to keep quiet, but the first night in a new bed was the worst, as always. It was as if he was punishing himself a little more for having a warm place and a decent mattress when his Angel had had nothing, nothing at all.<p>

He was just looking up at his dream-self, the point when the horror dawned on him, when it all stopped. He wasn't looking at himself; he was looking at the bluest eyes in creation. Then the voice, HIS voice, elegant, smooth, gentle, English (and without the cracked raw hurt) asked, _"Why are you having my dreams?"_

Something inside him broke; there was no room for himself, no room for his self-hatred. There was only overwhelming love and grief, mixed in an emotional slurry than not even dynamite could blow apart. He pitched forward, rising to his knees to launch himself at the ghost of his Angel, grasping at the misty outlines of rumpled tweed slacks and patched-somebody's-uncle-sweater, mind-babbling: _dontgodontgodontgo_.

His Angel spoke in his heart: _Calm your mind! _And he obeyed, folding quietly back on his haunches, hands laced together, eyes on the ground.

"Yes, Sir, Your Heavenliness...ness."

His Angel's laughter filled him like no drink or drug ever could, as he asked, _Heavenliness?ness? Really, I'm no Angel...quite the opposite, in fact._

"But you are! An Angel I mean. I wanted to tell you that I figured it out before, I wanted to, but I was afraid, afraid I'd hurt you if I told you...told you stuff."

_Ahh, stuff. I do believe I understand now why my night terrors have been...less...than I anticipated. I do believe you have been taking the brunt of the worst trauma, making it bearable. I must thank you for that._

"NO! If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have suffered, wouldn't have DIED... 'thanks'? Oh no no thanks I deserve no thanks...I deserve Hell."

_And if I see aright, you have been living in a hell of your own making for a year, determined to pay a debt that you do not entirely owe. You were one of six, and not the worst offender. And listen! *_his Angel caught up his chin, hand shaking a tiny bit, and lifted his head up to meet his Eyes* _And you were kind to me in the end; you insisted on caring for me, comforting me in my last hours in captivity. You were lied to, you were paid to do a job, you were specifically told it would be a good thing, a right and proper thing, to hurt me, to hurt my Erik. And yet, the instant it was permitted for you to show mercy, you did. Tell me, Jimmie, do you think you could have stopped Swede and the others from hurting Erik and me?_

*softly, all but inaudible* "No, Sir."

_Could you have done or said anything to change Shaw's mind?_

*shake of the head* "No."

_What would have happened if you had protested?_

"They would'da fired me."

_Jimmie, you can't lie to a telepath._

"Fine, they would'da killed me, but better me than you!"

_But what would that have changed or solved? You would be dead, and my ending would have been the same, and the rest would have been all the crueler for fear of Shaw and your fate. Would you have wanted that?_

"Never, never my Angel."

_Do you think Swede lies sleepless at night, driving himself to the edge of madness with grief and remorse?_

*snort* "I know Swede's dead drunk and happy as a clam on all the dough he made and the extra 'commission' he took from us for getting us all in."

_Charming; he's not only a torturing bastard, he cheats his friends as well._

"I'm not his friend! Just hung on to his leash and let him drag me along."

*soft chuckle* _Then we are of the same mind; he's not my friend either._

They were both silent, his Angel lost in thought, still holding his chin, gazes still locked. A single thought drifted between them - _I can, and I will_ - before his Angel dropped the hand holding his chin, and said aloud, _"Would you do me a favor?"_

"ANYTHINGanythinganythingany..."

_"Softly, softly now, a simple 'yes' will suffice. But would you do what I ask of you?"_

*a nod, all his heart in his eyes*

_"Then stop torturing yourself, at least while you are here. It distresses me enormously. Please, would you do that, for my sake?"_

"I don't know if I can stop it, but if I can, I will...but only because it hurts you."

_"Fair enough. I do believe a very small adjustment is all that is necessary...would you allow me to help?"_

"You can do whatever you want to me, anywhere, anywhen, anytime, anything."

*small smile* _"Done."_

"Wha? Huh? I mean, shouldn't it hurt, or take a Bible or something?"

_"No all done."_

While he shook his head in disbelief, his Angel began to fade.

_"Oh, Jimmie?"_

"Angel Sir?"

_"Get some sleep."_

* * *

><p>So now, in the time it would normally take to build one bunker, they have built three. Two and a half months of construction, and the genius geek has his labs and what is clearly an airplane hanger. There are storage rooms and barracks and a gym the kids are calling the Danger Room. And the final pour for the deepest, biggest room of all is ready. Six more days to smooth, set and shape the domed area (and to fix the small 'accidents' that the kids have caused around the castle) and the job will be over. He will dearly miss this place; it has become a haven, a home. He will miss the people most of all: his co-workers, the kitchen staff, Mr. Johnson, Miss Raven, geek McCoy, cock-of-the-walk Alex and scarecrow Sean. He has gotten to know them all in his months at the castle; the only people he hasn't met are Miss Raven's two brothers. They'd been in some terrible accident: one had recovered in a few weeks, but the other is still recuperating, so they've kept to themselves, leaving the running of the place to her. He hadn't a chance before, but today, he is telling the young Lady of the manor that they'll be out of her way in a week, and she'll be able to concentrate on helping her brothers more.<p>

"Miss Raven, I haven't said, but I feel real sorry for your one brother still being hurt; it must be a strain on your whole family. I hope he's better real soon."

"My brother's really strong, even though he doesn't look it; he _will_ be fine, but thank you for your thoughts. My brother always says that even a kind thought helps, and he ought to know—" But before she can continue, a loud boom has her whipping around. "Excuse me, I need to check on the others..."

And one of the heavy wooden scaffold beams leaning against the house, is knocked loose from the vibration, and starts to fall.

Heading straight for the young woman.

"RAVEN!"

Additional A/N:

Next update in a few days. Reviews are welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: More thank yous go out to dodgerjoi, avictoriangirl & to Meadowlark for faving and to Meadowlark again for a very kind review. And as always, thanks to ChristianGateFan for yeoman service as my unflappable beta.

Normal disclaimer - I do not own the Xmen.

Finally, there will be some very old fashioned swear words and slurs in this and later chapters (along with everything else), you have been warned.

Chapter 3 - Comes Around

Fire.

He's on fire.

And that's ok.

He can't turn or move without pain.

And that's ok too.

He remembers the beam falling, about to crush Miss Raven.

That's NOT ok.

"MISS RAVEN! MISS RAVEN! SHE ALRIGHT?"

"Steady, steady on, that's a good chap. Raven's fine, quite well, thanks to you."

"Oh, thank God, I..." Then his brain catches up with his ears. That voice. Only one being in all the world...

But that's not possible.

He must be dreaming...maybe he's dead. Or halloos...hellus, whatchamacallit?

"My dear fellow, you are quite awake and neither dead nor hallucinating. You were struck a glancing blow when you pushed Raven out from the path of that dratted redwood log, and you are currently in our infirmary, a bit worse for the wear, but Hank assures us that you will be completely sound within a fortnight."

And of all the questions, comments, actions, prayers, of everything he wants to ask and needs to say, all he can come up with is...

"What's a 'fortnight' ?"

Charles.

That beautiful, wonderful Angel.

For the last three days, he'd felt like he was in Heaven. McCoy would check him over, re-bandage, and tell him he needed to stay in bed for another day. Miss Raven would come in, ask how he was, and tell him how the construction was going. Alex and Sean would come in, asking if he needed 'something' from town (he'd say he was fine and really it wasn't their fault, stupid beam would'da fallen anyways).

Then His Angel would appear. Each time, he reaches out, just to touch the edge of His sweater, just to make sure He's alive, He's real. He barely can bring himself to do it; he's soiled his Angel enough, but He says He doesn't mind. "Jimmie, you are not the man who hurt me; you destroyed that other man a year ago. You were driven mad and did as evil men bid you; you are sane now. What was done is done, and forgiven." Still, it made him sad to see how injured He remained; yet He would wave off any concern over His health, and they'd talk instead about Jimmie. How was he feeling? Did he have family? Did he miss them? Was he bored? Would he like to play cards, or board games? Would he like to read? Jimmie had answered every question honestly and at length (seeing how _this_ time, he really could tell that his Angel loved to talk, really talk to people) but when he admitted that he was a very poor reader, but had loved being read to, Angel Eyes lit up like the sun at noon, and He'd hobbled out at near normal speed...returning with a small pile of favorites, bidding him choose whatever he'd enjoy...

And He would smile.

And everything would be all right.

Charles.

That beautiful, stubborn, wonderful Angel...has been doing everything He can to keep him out of Erik Lehnsherr's way. No matter how many different ways he's asked, he can never find out if Lehnsherr is on the premises, or if he can see him. His Angel is expert at changing the subject, and Jimmie has been so happy, every time he follows his Angel Eyes' lead and forgets the debt for another day...but he knows that he can't delay the reckoning much longer.

It is the fourth day since the beam fell, and Hank McCoy has pronounced him well enough to leave the infirmary, but declared that he will need another week and a half of rest before he can return to normal activity.

So he is making his way out to gather his things. Since he cannot work until after the construction is done, he is going to leave. That is, if he's still alive when Lehnsherr gets done with him.

His limping Angel stops him as he walks gingerly out of the infirmary. "Jimmie, please come with me; we have a guest room for you so you won't have to walk all over creation and tire yourself. You are welcome here as long as you wish to stay."

"Sir, where's Lehnsherr?"

"Oh! Around and about; no need to concern yourself."

"I need to find him."

"Whatever for?"

"To pay my debt."

"What debt?"

"For hurting you."

"My dear fellow, you have paid for your unfortunate errors, with interest. For an entire year, you bore my pain and shame. Moreover, you then selflessly, at utter risk of your own life, saved my sister. For that alone, I can hardly repay you."

He shakes his head. "Sir, it's not enough, we're not even. Look at you; still need a cane to get around when no one's looking. Saving Miss Raven? It's only what anybody with balls, I mean, sorry, guts, anybody with any guts would do, should do. Nothing special." His trembling voice sinks down to a whisper. "You got nothing to be ashamed of. I'm the sick faggot here, I'm going to Hell, not you. It's time Lehnsherr got his pound of flesh."

"Please do not call yourself that or use that term...No, what is between us stays between us. The true villain of the piece is Shaw, and Erik hates him enough for us all."

"He hates me, too. Not so much 'cause I hurt him...shit, I mean shoot, we were so piss-poor scared, even Swede didn't dare go down on the Shark. Heck! We could see he'd been worked over by an expert, he was all tied up and we were still too afraid of him to do much. But I hurt you, and THAT'S what I owe him."

"Agreed."

"Erik!"

"Lehnsherr!"

And with that, in the hallway, metal in every corner of the castle vibrating, stands an extremely angry metal melding mutant, with murder on his mind.

Reviews are welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: PLEASE READ! Slight revision to the A/N at bottom.

The following contains a blasphemy as well as a joke that requires a bit of explaining. Read it first, and then if you don't get it, read the explanation at the end of the chapter.

And don't forget my other warnings...and I still own nothing that belongs to Stan Lee, Marvel, Fox, et als.

* * *

><p>Chapter 4 - What they do in fairy tales<p>

Charles moves forward, planting himself squarely between the two men.

"Now Erik, please! Calm yourself! Jimmie is unarmed, no danger to us a-aaaahhh!"

Erik refuses to wait on Charles' patented lecture; the startled telepath finds himself hoisted by the metal leg-braces hidden beneath his trousers, and thrust safely behind his beloved...who now has a clear bead on his foe...

...who is grinning with nerves and amusement.

Erik, cold with the pounding litany of _youhurtmeinkleinSchatz _ringing in his head, keeps a fraction of his power holding Charles in place, the rest of his concentration bent on the small cluster of coins that is now whirling about the head of the disgusting human before him—who isn't acting at all like someone about to be disemboweled by a nickel—and asks with a smirk, "Any last requests?"

"Yeah, sure, thought you'd never ask," says Jimmie, looking so pleased to see the metal orbiting his head, that Erik, hardened killer, is thoroughly nonplussed by the man's odd reaction.

"Lehnsherr, I have something for you," continues Erik's target, whose nervous determination is warring with awe at the casual display of power (which, owing to the complete absence of metal for the ten months that he'd been 'acquainted' with Erik, he has never seen him use before), "something you're gonna want to have." He slowly bends over, left hand up in token of truce and parley, right hand tugging on his nearside bootstrap. A ceramic knife rises slowly out of its hidden sheath, which he presents hilt first to the mutant metal master. Of course, he completely misses the smirk the Shark aims at his Angel. "You know what this is and where it comes from; they let me keep it as a 'souvenir'," he says with loathing, like he were spitting out poison, "and you know how well it cuts. Should do the trick, easy enough. You may want to start with my throat about here," and he indicates at the Adam's Apple, "so Miss Raven don't get too upset at all the screaming, but—" He looks up at Erik's outraged face and panics. "Just a, just a suggestion," he babbles, voice shaking. "Not like I'm making you or anything; you get your pound of flesh however you want it."

"My WHAT?"

"Pound of flesh. To pay my debt. I hurt you and yours, so you get a pound of flesh off of me. It's what Jews do, I mean my mom read it to me out of a book when I was little, and I don't get it all the way but it sounds right, 'eye for an eye' kinda stuff." The young human cocks his head, trying to look past the whirling coinage at the taller man: "Did I get something wrong?" he quizzically and humbly inquires.

Erik can scarcely believe his ears; can anyone really be that stupid, that ignorant? Erik looks at Charles for confirmation, and his lab rat nods and telepathically adds, _Erik, he truly believes that he's offering a valid penance, a Jewish ritual atonement; he isn't trying to insult you. Far from it. Considering the source is Shakespeare, how was he to know it was all a fiction? _Charles's mental voice begins to quiver with suppressed mirth. _It's quite funny actually._ Meanwhile, Jimmie looks from Shark (who looks like he's been poleaxed) to Angel (who looks wide-eyed and alarmed, right hand clenching and hiding his lower face), and his increasing perplexity gives way to a full face-palm and a bodyslam against the corridor, hand and backside simultaneously siding down face and wall, landing him in a heap on the floor. "Oh sweet Jesus H. Christ, I got it wrong didn't I...I should'da known something was up when they named the girl for a car."

"Car?" Erik manages to squeak out.

"Portia." (pronounced "Porsche")

And that is how Hank McCoy finds his patient, James Michael "Jimmie" Andolini, sitting on the floor surrounded by loose change, choking on laughter and tears, while the eternally dignified Professor Charles Francis Xavier is curled in the metal-bender's lap soundlessly howling into his lover's collar, and the normally dour Erik Magnus Lehnsherr sits legs akimbo in the middle of the hall, rocking them both joyously with echoing laughter.

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><p>The three of them talk for hours; (that is, once the Shark agrees not to reduce Jimmie to his component metals..."You mean, I got iron in me? and gold even? Ahh, you're joshing me, right? No? Wow! Too bad we can't sell me for scrap.")<p>

They are in Jimmie's new room (which he declared bigger than Grand Central Station)...

"You know, this forgiveness stuff is harder than it looks. I mean, I feel like I'm so light, I could float over the Rockies; but then, I feel like I could sink to the bottom of those tar pits in California. Don't know whether to laugh or cry," says Jimmie, blushing and softly grinning at his feeble explanation.

Charles answers Jimmie's shy smile with one of his own. The injured young man no longer resembles a hardened thug; gone is the hard-eyed facade, the slicked-back biker hair. Rather, Charles muses, he looks like he could be one of his students back at Oxford. So Charles quickly reassures him. "I'm sure once the shock wears off, your heart will adjust. I must confess, I feel much the same confusion as yourself. It is extremely simple to hate and to fear; 'tis much more difficult to love and trust, but it is what makes living worth the while."

Erik grunts at that. "Unlike you two, I am not forgiving, and surely not forgetting. Talk to me again when Shaw is dead."

Charles looks sadly at Erik, but Jimmie jumps in: "Nah, he's plenty right Sir! I still got a debt to pay...maybe not stupid like, like I was gonna before, but I still owe you guys big time. So if I'm gonna do this right, like in the old tales, where the evil Queen has to tell the good King what punishment she'd give a bad guy for doing this and that, and then the King says, 'well, you said it yourself' and she gets dragged down the street in a barrel of nails, I've gotta help you figure out my penance. And figure, only thing I can do is help you get Shaw. Face it, no matter what, that Shaw is dangerous and smart, not dangerous and stupid like Swede. Swede? Just dump him down a hole and leave 'em, end of story. But Shaw? The second Shaw knows he's been had, he'll be here, and he won't be fooled by the same trick twice. He lives, somebody, somebody _nice_, is gonna die. Maybe lots of somebodies. I was bad; no excuses, can't even blame his dame on what I done, but he's real bad news. He'll hurt the whole world before he's through. He's a devil, and even you two need help."

But before Charles can interject that Jimmie was not wholly to blame, that Frost did have so much to do with his actions, Erik cuts in:"And how," drawls Erik, "do you propose to help us?"

"Like the mouse did for the lion: info, and getting you guys out of a tight spot. Bet you wanna know where Shaw is..." He gets no farther, as the table lamp begins to melt, and continues, "take that as a 'yes'. Yeah, Swede called my mom 4 days ago, and left me a message. Said that 'our old Boss wants us for a job at month's end'. And I know it's Vegas that Shaw was at, 'cause Swede bitched, opps, pardon my French, complained lots about the phone bill. He had to get the operator to connect him to the Atomic Hellfire Club and she said it would cost five whole bucks."

"Oh, my yes, that does sound terribly expensive, even for long distance."

Erik looks from Charles to Jimmie, not sure whether to laugh or to strangle them both with the poker by the fireplace. "May we get back to the subject and forget that slug's finances for the time being? How do we know that Shaw will be there, even if Swede will?"

" 'Cause, he told Swede that he needs more men to 'impress' some government guys! If he needs to put on a dog and pony show, then he's gonna be there, count on it."

The men fall silent for a few moments, all thinking, and all coming to the same conclusion: "It's a trap" three voices affirm to each other.

"A trap, yeah, but for who?" asks Jimmie softly.

"Whom."

"Huh?"

"Charles!"

"But Jimmie asks for nothing more than to learn."

"And I want to know what Shaw wants this time, and leave the grammar lesson alone."

"Then you guys need help and this is where I come in. But you gotta trust me, and come home with me, back to my place, and talk to my dad."

"Why would we do anything like that?" asks the incredulous metal bender.

"Because a trap's no good if the mouse won't take the bait. My dad says an ambush only works when the squad doesn't know it's there. He says it's the surprise that turns the trick; no surprise, the ambushers fall flat on their faces (and usually, right on the bayonets). He's real smart about stuff like that; says it comes from his officer, smartest guy he ever knew. If you want a plan to get around Shaw, talk to my dad."

Erik eyes his former tormentor thoughtfully; there is something different about the young man, a sanity that had been missing previously, and even then, he had not acted like the other guards: nameless, faceless, living torture devices. Even then, this human occasionally acted...human. Acted humanely, almost despite himself. And now, it's as if they're all telepaths, and Jimmie is naked to him, heart and mind. A swift glance at his Schatz, and it is decided.

They will trust, and go back.

On their terms.

* * *

><p>AN: And now to explain the joke...and many thanks to Meadowlark, as it's been over 20 years since I read the play, and I, like Jimmie, messed up an important detail...

Ok...ever read, "The Merchant of Venice"? One of Shakespeare's great plays?

You can wiki it, but in a nutshell, Shylocke the Merchant (who is Jewish) is rich, stingy, and believes in the letter of the law.

He makes a loan and tells the young man that if he fails to pay it back, the merchant gets to collect a 'pound of flesh' (literally - which is were the old saying comes from in the first place). The young man runs into some issues and so cannot pay the money back. The reason the guy goes into debt is to back the play of his best friend, who needs the money to court his girl. When it all goes south, the best friend figures that he got his friend into the mess, he'll take the punishment too. The girl decides she loves her man too much to let him be killed or crippled for life, so she pretends to be the local lawyer, and when Shylocke is ready to collect, she reminds him that he can have exactly one pound of flesh...but no blood. Game over, Shylocke looses, she gets married...yada yada (and I am leaving out the more troubling aspects of the play)... and her name is Portia, which sounds just like the fancy sports car...

And since the whole point was that the Merchant couldn't get his 'pound of flesh' (and nobody in the history of Jewry ever even tried) AND the confusion over the girl's name - the play is over 400 years old, cars weren't invented until the turn of the last century...again, Jimmie ain't bright, but he remembers 'something' gets it half-assed, and has our heroes laughing so hard that they can't help but forgive him...

Reviews and comments are welcome!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: So sorry that this took so long, but between a glitchy virus infected PC and writer's block, I wasn't able to get this together until now. This Chapter is unbeta'd, as the need to keep this going was my biggest concern, but I will send it over to my beta later and then make corrections. Speaking of which, in this and subsequent Chapters, I am making a great effort to faithfully reproduce the Northern New Jersey Italian-American accent. If anyone has trouble reading same, let me know, and I will provide a 'translation' on the update.

I still own nothing of the X-Men.

I also wish to thank all those who have read, reviewed and favorited, the special mentions are to MaeCalhoun, 20eKUraN11, ggbeale, paxjoy, ninjaris13, Bethlyn2196 and thanks again to Meadowlark, LoveSupreme and Wolfie for reviewing and ChristianGateFan for being my beta.

Cherik in the next Chapter, I double promise! **THIS HAS BEEN REVISED 1/8/2012**

Please review and Happy New Year.

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><p>Chapter 5 – An Expected Journey<p>

Jimmie's father is invaluable from the start; as soon as Jimmie calls to say he is coming home, the veteran demands logistic details. It is soon decreed that Erik should come immediately to their home to complete a thorough reconnaissance: "Nazi hunter eh? Tell him not to worry, we'll get dis bastaid! But you guys, don't fly straight from New Yawk to Chicago to Logan. Go out West and come in tru Los Angeles to Seattle-Tacoma to Logan. Your mom will get you from dere, and we'll say Angie's comin' home for a visit; ya know half the deadbeats in town owe him money, so nobody's gonna bodda comin' 'round to see who's here."

When he finds out that Erik AND Charles have been found, the older man's relief is palpable: "Tank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Maybe ya ain't goin' to Hell after all. Better bring him along; dey'll never tink to find him here."

But when Jimmie adds that there are four teens in the house, he immediately orders Jimmie to order Charles to send the boys to England: "His people are from dere, right? He's rich, right? Means he's got a family place dere, I know! my officer was a Brit and noble, so get da boys clear as decoys. Dey do da tourist ting for a week or two, den dey split up, like dey're all goin' back to deir folks, sose dey gotta go in tree different directions, see? BUT, dey meet back here, at our place, day before da day before, sose dey can rest up, and be back up in case we need 'em, but sose if big bad Shaw comes knockin', why dey ain't dere no more, and da help don't know nuttin' either. Dey're safe, see?"

Plus, the elder Andolini adds an extra layer of contingent planning: "Oh, and ya say dat da Boss is a friend? Make sure he takes his missus out to Florida for a month. So Shaw's got nuttin' but stupido humans, sose he'll give up and not bodda to find out your Angel's still on Eart. But da girl, she's comin' to us now; we're gonna need her here, and her brother won't go all crazy not knowin' what's what. Capish?"

The plan is so sound, even Erik can find no fault with it...that is, once he received the translation. Erik understands misdirection as well as anyone, and he finds that having the boys go as a unit to England, but splitting up back in the States, Hank to D.C., Sean to Boston and Alex to Pittsburgh, before they all hit Montana, no later than two days before the meeting with Shaw, to be a cunning plan indeed.

Thus it is agreed; the minor repairs will be put off, what little mind adjusting that is needed is done, and 'Uncle' Carl agrees to take 'Aunt' May on a second honeymoon. But before he leaves, he gives Charles and Hank his number at his parents' Florida home. "Ya need me, ya call me, hear? I was yer father's good friend (no matter I wasn't rich, he was a good egg) and yer his son. I was at Omaha Beach; I wound up doing clean-up at Bergen-Belsen. I saw what those basterds did. I saw yer friend's arm. I remember the government suits lookin' around, askin' questions last year. And I can put two n' two together. I still got my service piece and I keep in practice. If ya need anything, especially muscle, ya call me! No ifs, ands or buts!"

The boys are sent away first, all three excited by their first plane rides, and their first time out of the country, passports provided courtesy of Moira. To their credit, the CIA had kept the Hellfire Club under constant surveillance after Charles and Erik's kidnapping, hoping that Shaw or Frost would make an appearance (which they never openly did). Once they made it back, only Moira and Director McCone knew the truth, and so the surveillance was allowed to 'end', to let Shaw think that the Americans were no longer interested in mutants. Without Cerebro or a telepath to run it, and with a reportedly 'inconsolable and uncooperative' Erik, it all seemed plausible enough. Now, with the boys safely on their way, Moira calls and reminds Charles: "Remember, we are on the same side. Don't go after Shaw without me. If nothing else, we can give you two the distractions you need to take Shaw down. McCone has a team ready infiltrate the club and deal with civilians and any collaborators, so you can go after Shaw's people." Though he knows that Erik thinks the government suits useless, Charles reassures Moira that he'll keep them "apprised of anything of interest."

Charles hangs up the receiver and sighs. All the pieces on the board are on the move; nothing more to be done than to get themselves ready to leave the next day, and see where Fate will lead them.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Warning! The Cherik portion of the evening has arrived, which means male x male pairing. No flaming, but honest critiques and reviews welcome.

Many thanks to ChristianGateFan, for not only beta-ing, but for putting in a special ad in her fic "The Choice" so that others who enjoyed that story could read mine.

Also thanks to these new faces for favoriting (wonkafrog, pookieirvin123, tmmdeathwishraven, le-maru, NECO NECO, and JenniferC77) and especially for the kind reviews (tmmdeathwishraven, le-maru, & NECO NECO).

Still do not own the X-Men, still belongs to Marvel and gang.

2-21-2012 – REVISED, and thanks to Gene for the analysis and bringing a glaring error to my attention.

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><p>Chapter 6 – Between Here and There<p>

"Thank you, my friend" says Charles softly.

"For what?" asks Erik, as the two put the finishing touches on their packing.

"For giving peace a chance."

They are in their room; it's really Charles' master suite, but they have both given up the pretense that Erik does not share Charles' living quarters. Since the first night back at the mansion, when Erik tried to give Charles a bit of space (and thus, restore the privacy that he'd been robbed of), and found that they needed each others' comfort much more, Erik had become a permanent fixture. Charles could no more sleep without Erik, than sleep without breathing.

Erik clicks their suitcases shut and levitates them casually to the side of the room, walking around their bed to clasp Charles close.

"How can I not, liebling Schatz? The plan Shaw let you see in his head, his plan for my life? Love, I shall do all in my power to thwart him and if that means forgiving one of his pawns...well, I can't say that I will be able to do it, or do it completely, as you seem to have done, but I do admit that if I can forgive anyone, it is Jimmie."

"I'm glad, so very glad of that. Jimmie is truly deserving of compassion; had Miss Frost not implanted suggestions of obedience and removed his inhibitions, he might have found his courage to aid us the sooner. As it was, he did what he could, in Emma Frost's despite."

"I wondered about that; sorry to say, I thought him more cowardly than the others. Always hanging back, never coming close, growing 'tired' faster, or too concerned about trivial things." Erik snorts, and continues: "I remember one day the whip handle was loose, and he spent an hour running around looking for duck tape to repair it, then insisted on fixing the rest of the equipment, telling the others it would come out of their pay if they broke anything. It wasn't until today that I realized that he would always find a way not to hurt me whenever we'd hear your voice in the other room, begging for mercy for me."

Erik stares off to the side, out the balcony into the woods behind the mansion, before continuing: "And yet, isn't it odd, that of all the jobs he could have taken, of all the places he could have gone, he wound up here? It's as if he was guided to us," Erik murmurs, almost to himself.

"Guided indeed, my dear one. Inadvertent as it was, I gave him many of my memories; for example, he knows these grounds nearly as well as Raven does. I may also have gifted him with my mutant sense and an overwhelming urge to help those in distress."

"Then you had best undo the last two grants. We do not need another impossibly optimistic Charles-type wreaking well-meaning havoc in the world." Erik smirks and before Charles can huff a retort, kisses him, slowly and surely.

_"Bed" _is all that Charles can think, totally enveloped in passion as Erik sweeps him off his feet and carries him to their bed, kiss unbroken all the while. They separate as Erik lightly deposits him on the bed, then crawls up besides him, toe-ing off both shoes and dragging his Schatz back in for another round of kisses.

Erik loves to kiss his Charles, to feel the smooth glide of such ruddy glory on his own mouth. Of any and everyone he's ever kissed (and granted there have not been so many as all that) only Charles tastes of teas (Darjeeling, chamomile, or peppermint, depending on the time of day), honey and iron (those lips are so red for a reason)...flavors that mingle and swirl into an essence that he'll never tire of.

While Erik is getting drunk on the intoxicating beverage called 'Charles', their hands are busy, as neither need their eyes to shed their clothes in flung heaps near the bed. As they fill their hands with each other, Erik flicks his wrist, turning off the lights, but before the room can become utterly pitch dark, another wrist flick opens the heavy curtains, allowing the moonlight to flood in.

"Ah, there!" croons a besotted Erik, as he unwraps Charles like a gift, exposing him to the Moon's caress. "Oh, my love, how you glow, like alabaster, like Galadriel's Phial."

"My! Aren't we the poet tonight!" laughs Charles as he entwines his arms around Erik's shoulders, kissing him soundly. "Next thing, you'll be comparing me to Excalibur, or perhaps one of the Wart's animal friends."

"_But Charles, I find you incomparable" _thinks Erik to Charles, and they mesh in mind and soul...and there is no more talk.

At least, not with words.

Words are useless to Erik now, because no words can describe how he feels when he finishes 'unwrapping' Charles to the Moon's gaze. Blue-gray eyes sweep across his beloved, as he backs up a bit on the bed, so that he can have an unobstructed view of his masterpiece. His telepath's chocolate brown hair looks black in the moonlight, but those eyes (unlike his own) are always blue, the bluest of blues. His red red lips – red and healthy again, just as Erik promised him they would be – shine from all the kissing, and the blush he sports, even after a year of Erik's attentions, goes from the tips of his ears, across his cheeks, and down, down, down, downy, to the curls that only Erik will ever see. There is a curving, gently defined chest; graceful abdominal muscles coiling with anticipation; and strength has returned to the long lines of his thighs. And between those thighs, half-erect and getting longer and more enticing as the seconds pass, is the most perfect manhood, rising just for him.

In Erik's view, Charles is a living Snow White, fairest of them all, despite the scars. For there are scars on his body, white on white, not as many as on Erik's (as if even his tormentors and Shaw could appreciate a work of art when they saw one), and some that are older than last year, much much older, so faded that only a keen eye could spot them.

Erik has a keen eye.

Still, he no longer is bothered by any of the scars, old or new. He knows of them and the history of each, (even those from Charles' less than idyllic childhood). And they are precious to him, as he leans forward again to kiss each one, while Charles strokes his hair with one hand, and traces random patterns on Erik's back with the other. Erik rubs up against his beloved, cat-like and loving the slow soft feel of flesh on flesh, and decides to return to Charles' lips for more breathless kissing. Quick as thought, their tongues whirl together, fencing for dominance. Charles' body presses into Erik, as he laughs into their open mouths for the pure joy of it all. Erik hums back in response, picking up the pace and pulling back and downwards, lavishly licking from the hollow behind Charles' ear, across the width of his neck (leaving a hickey or three behind), then tracing his way down to a nipple, which he slowly begins sucking, Charles pressing himself closer against him.

Charles sighs with contentment; nothing is better than Erik on his body,...unless it is Erik in his body, in his heart and in his mind. Wishing to return the feeling, he hooks both legs around Erik's back, using them to hug and caress his lower back and butt. Charles can feel Erik's smile, as the metal-bender hums against his skin. Charles begins to gently grind against Erik's stomach, his erection loosening a moan from Erik's throat, while Erik's own manhood throbs, so he turns just enough to rub against his telepath's leg. Now it is Charles' turn to moan a wordless plea: _more..._

In response, Erik licks his way down to Charles' belly-button, his tongue dipping in and around in one fell swoop, while his beloved's hard member taps against his neck and collarbone. This grabs his attention, so he in turn fondles his partner's shaft, pitter-patter-ing his fingers up and down as if Charles' member was a penny-whistle. The younger man's reaction is a swift bucking, arching burning hot into Erik's hand. The caress turns harder, faster, as Erik pumps his fist up and down his lover's shaft, the silken fire of his skin contrasting with the steel hardness beneath. With Erik's rough and gentle hand sending pulses of pleasure from his core to the base of of his spine to the nape of his neck, Charles begins to keen, eyes closed and head thrown back against the pillows, while his manhood weeps with joy. Erik can't stand to see such tears go to waste, so he lashes his tongue over and around the darkening head, lapping up every drop, each lick sending electric sparks down and out. Charles is so aroused he can't think at all, and grabs Erik's head in both hands out of sheer reflex. Erik gets the hint, and swallows him whole, tongue and teeth scraping fire down every nerve, while Charles gasps out a wild "ERIK!" exploding in ecstasy before he can regain control, sending waves of pleasure and cream down Erik's throat. Shark-smiling, Erik laughs, wringing the last bits of sensation out of Charles' orgasm as he withdraws.

Erik is not quite through with the evening; as Charles shakes with the after glow, the metal kine shimmies up the mattress and summons a silver chased vial of lubricant oil, offering it to Charles. Since he can barely see straight, Charles uses touch to find Erik's manhood and then slathers it with the lube, as Erik moans in delight. But turnabout is fair play, and Charles, refusing to surrender the oil, begins to play his own tune, massaging Erik's balls and butt with slick fingers, circling closer and closer to his goal. A little more oil on his dancing fingers, a push with his shoulder to get Erik on his back, and Charles slowly brings first one finger, then another, then a third, around and into his lover's entrance, softly pistoning in and out; now it's Erik's turn to keen with abandon. Charles rolls into his lover's side, fingers press up as Erik pushes down to meet him, a slow dance of desire building higher. Then together they find that perfect place deep inside, and Erik's body hitches and he screams, "Again!" Another thrust down meets another thrust up, and another cry of gladness echos into the room, demanding, "AGAIN!" Faster now, harder too, as they both pick up the pace, ramming Erik's sweet spot as much as they can, each pass bringing the metal-bender closer to release. Charles bends down and treats Erik's manhood to a thorough licking, tongue painting long firm strokes up and down his shaft, never stopping the pumping, reducing Erik to quivering want, running his fingers through chocolate locks. _CharlesCharlesCharles _goes Erik's mental chant, as Charles switches to a tight sucking, traveling from the tip of the head to the utter base. One pass, another, a third, timed with the fingers thrusting, a final hit of the spot with a final head bob down , and Erik screams the telepath's name as he comes, Charles swallowing greedily and as fast as he can.

They part only long enough for Charles to catch his breath. Then Charles curls into his lover's side, throwing an arm over his chest, a leg over his companion's thighs for good measure, while Erik wraps the younger man securely in his arms. Charles snuggles down and Erik kisses his hair and both mind- whisper '_I love you'_ as they fall swiftly asleep.

* * *

><p>As Charles lies sleeping, his mind wanders, dreaming, and he comes upon Jimmie, dreaming a dream himself. Charles enters Jimmie's mental landscape, as the other senses he is near, and invites him in. Charles finds himself in a clearing on the grounds, a campfire burning merrily, Jimmie sitting Indian-style in its warmth, a dull gray box clutched tight in his arms like a lover.<p>

_"What are your doing out here, Jimmie? Tho' I shall say that you've picked a wondrous night for camping; you've made the stars look so bright."_

"_Everything's always beautiful when you're around. See? I gotcha in this box, just like Portia's dad locked her picture in one. You're inside see? Yeah, it's all the bad stuff, but it's good too, 'cause so long's it's sealed in tight, nothing can get out and hurt you. And this ways..." _The young former guard falls silent.

_' "And this ways?" '_ prompts Charles, leaving the grammar alone for once.

Sigh, _"And this ways, I can love and serve you, without hurting you."_

A stump has appeared, and Charles sits heavily upon it, stunned. Jimmie continues:_ "I know you got me; don't need me to spell it out, but if I don't say it now, I'll say it in front of Lehnsherr, and he don't need to hear this, you do." _A steadying breath, a locking of eyes_, "I love you, Charles, my Angel Eyes. I love you so much, I'd kill myself if it would make your pain go away forever. I'm not queer, never even wanted to be with a guy, didn't even know it was possible. Thanks to Frosty the Snow-Witch, she made it possible, but now I'm stuck. Even if you were a girl, you couldn't forgive me enough to want to __be my wife; even if you were a girl, you'd be so far outta my league! I swear, all the girls I had were dogs, inside and out, not one that I'd want to be with for more than a night. YOU? I never knew there could be anyone with eyes so blue, anyone so good that wasn't a saint...I never held anyone so __beautiful in my arms, and I never will again."_

There is silence between them, as the imagined stars wheel overhead; Charles has no answer, no comfort to give, because it is true.

Still, Charles tries.

"_Jimmie, you don't know that. There are many lovely ladies in the world, and well, if your tastes have changed, there are many handsome men...you are not ugly, and your goodness shines through. You'll find someone to love and care for you, as you love and care for them."_

Jimmie smiles ruefully at his Angel: _"I already have, Charles, I already have...I have you."_

Charles sighs, but before he can speak, Jimmie interjects: _"I know you belong to Erik, bottom line. And no matter what, I ain't...I mean, I'm not the kind of guy that hits on another guy's girl. And you count, even if you're all guy. But I know that even after everything, you care more about me than anybody except my mom. So I'll say it again; I'll never find anyone else, but it's ok. I have you, right here,"_ knocks gently on the lead box, _"and I'll treasure you, and keep you safe for the rest of my life. You can have these memories when you want to have them, when you need to have them, but otherwise, they'll be as far away as forever."_ Still clutching the the box to his chest, Jimmie takes a knee before Charles, his clothes morphing, first a tabard like one of the White Queen's guards, then to a ranger of Ithilien, then to the squire's get-up that the Wart wore that fateful day, but finally settling on his usual attire, work boots, jeans, white t-shirt and button-down red plaid flannel: _"Allow me, Lord, to pledge my trout to you."_

It takes all of Charles' sang-froid not to burst out laughing, but he bows his head to hide his smile and solemnly says: _"Chevalier Mal-Fet, I am honored to accept your plighted troth. Know this, for all that you have done of good for me and mine, I name you friend, and offer you a home here, when ever you may wish it." _ In reply, Jimmie whispers: _ "It's just a dream, so no harm"_ and grabs the offered hand, and kisses his Angel's knuckles, fervently, sealing the deal.

Charles rises from the stump, but like in nightmares and fever-dreams, something feels off; he cannot let go of Jimmie's hand. Jimmie is still gazing on in adoration; the telepath is not being hurt or threatened in anyway, and yet, he begins to panic:

"_Jimmie, Jimmie, my friend, you must let go, let go of me."_

"_But, but why? I won't hurt you...never hurt you. I just want to love you, to serve."_

"_Serve, perhaps, but not slave...you are free of me, my friend, I lay no chain upon you. If you would do as I bid, I would bid you to live as the strong and courageous man that you are and can be." _

Charles tugs more insistently at their linked hands, but the harder he pulls, the more their linked hands intertwine, the stronger the bond grows. Jimmie, too, tries to twist his wrist, loosen his fingers and break contact, and fails. Now Jimmie is starting to panic; the last thing he wants is to hurt or distress Charles in any way.

"_Wait wait wait a minute, hold it a sec! I've got an idea. I think we're like the Chinese finger traps; the more you pull, the more you're stuck. But the trick is to push together, then pull out. See? Like this!"_

Jimmie softly lays the lead box on the stump, and rises from his knees to stand tall, grasping Charles' forearm in his free hand, pulling him a few steps closer. Then, he begins to wildly pump their hands in that mocking parody of a handshake that little boys often do when they play at grown-ups. Their hand-clasp shakes apart, and Charles would have fallen over if Jimmie hadn't been still clutching his arm.

But now they are face-to-face, touching, kissing close. Eyes lock, sapphire to onyx. And as things do in dreams, the impossible happens; Jimmie sends his thoughts to Charles:

"_Angel Eyes, I beg of you, never fear me. I will make this right or die trying. I have a vendetta to complete. And I don't mean Shaw – I leave him to Lehnsherr, as his right. My grudge is the Bitch – she crossed a line, and as a **woman,** she knew better! She went too far to mess with my mind, and she's almost as dangerous as Shaw...she's gotta pay"_

"_Jimmie, you're right, she's very dangerous, and not to be triffled with – all the more reason for you to be far from her, you have no defense against her!"_

"_I have no defense...but I will...we will! Charles, I NEED to do this! Unless I know that she can never EVER mind-rape me to get to you again, unless I take a stand, a stand for both of us...I can't live with myself. Can't let you outta my sight neither. And how much longer do you think Lehnsherr's gonna put up with me making like a moon calf around you, huh? Nah, 'a man's gotta do,'* you know the drill. Once she's dead or outta commission, then, I'll know if I like girls, guys...or just love you." _

A breeze whispers 'round them, although they feel nothing; Charles know what this means, so aloud he says:

"_The zypher blows; dawn approaches. Our time here is up my friend. Please, do nothing rash until we have spoken more...hopefully when awake."_

"_Yeah, we'll talk...I'll need you to get the shields in place."_

"_How did you know about that?"_

Jimmie chuckles and answers with a gleam in his eye: _"Not used to having people in__** your **__head are ya? GOTCHA!"_

Charles feels himself drifting away, back to Erik's warm arms, while Jimmie picks up and hugs his precious burden tight, drifting with the sound of the early morning wind.

* * *

><p>AN: *The partial quote of: "a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do" is from the film 'The Rains of Rachipur' in 1955, said by Fred MacMurray, usually mis-attributed to John Wayne, according to the people of Answer dot com.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N:

Thanks to Suppie-chan the III and icerocks for favoriting, and many thanks again to Meadowlark, wolfie and Haylia Jones (in case I didn't say so before) for reviewing.

Many thanks to Gene for going over this with me tonight, just to make sure I wasn't going overboard, and as always many hugs and kisses to ChristianGateFan, whose been having a rough time lately, I hope this cheers you up!

Disclaimer: I am merely a fan of the genius of those who came before me and created this world to play in.

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><p>Chapter 7 – Arrival<p>

The three men have been quiet since they arrived in Seattle; the long trip has taken its toll on their hearts and minds, and Raven's attempts at conversation have died away, leaving each of them to their own thoughts.

Whether it was good planning or dumb luck (or some combination thereof), they had gotten this far without incident. They were so unremarkable, that Charles did not need to use his power even once to divert or erase the memories of those who surrounded them. And now they were on the final leg of their journey, none of them could help but feel anxious.

Raven's eyes keep flicking from one to the other to the next in rapid succession, while Charles pretends to be dozing, when he is really continuously sampling the minds around them softly for danger. When he isn't calming the minds of Erik and Jimmie, that is, and he seems to be continuously flitting between the two men.

Jimmie hasn't seen his family in a year; more, he thought he'd never see them again. Torn between joy and shame, it was all he could do to sit still. He kept replaying his last conversation with his father, over and over:

"You have shamed da Andolini; you have shame me; you have shamed yourself. My son, Da Boid!" (Jimmie still had no idea what that meant...except that for some reason, his father had nightmares about a bird, as far back as he can remember, so it was obviously a bad thing to be called.) "Do not come back until you have found dis Lehnsherr, and paid your debt!"

Erik, on the other hand, is torn between fears; fears he could never admit to anyone save Charles. He wanted to kill Shaw: for his mother, for Charles, for himself. Yet both Shaw and Charles were certain that killing Shaw was a trap, a trap meant for Erik alone. Like a stereo-typical villain, Shaw didn't mind if a dying Charles saw and despaired at his plans, so he had made no effort to hide his gloating thoughts. First, Shaw was convinced that he himself was a god, among mutants and especially high above the common humans; he thoroughly believed that he could not die or be killed, and any attempt by Erik would only result in failure and recapture. And Erik was afraid that Shaw was immortal, the boogie-man of his nightmares, that no matter what he did, he was destined to fail, and Charles would pay the price.

Second, Shaw wanted Erik to be "his" - his weapon against the humans (and in reality, anyone that would try to stand in Shaw's way), his creation, his _son_. Shaw further reasoned that if Erik somehow succeeded in killing him, it would be proof that Erik was fit to lead the mutants to supremacy, and he would naturally take Shaw's place as the head of the Hellfire Club. Shaw's reasoning was sound enough: Erik already hated the Nazis; Shaw knew he disliked and mistrusted all government on principle; he already knew that 'ordinary' humans could sink into a mob mentality in an instant; and now these lowly humans had 'killed' Erik's most beloved Charles. Shaw was expecting Erik to strike, and if he did not, then Shaw would find a way to goad him into attacking. Moira had already briefed them on several high government officials who were in Shaw's pocket, and Shaw was manipulating them into hating mutants (not knowing that Shaw was a mutant himself). And Erik was afraid that Shaw was right; were it not for Charles, Erik might already have fallen for Shaw's machinations, and worse, that no matter what, he would never be able to escape Shaw's clutches, that he would always be Shaw's Monster.

Yet how in the world could any of them let Shaw live? Shaw was no ordinary criminal; no normal cell could hold him. He would be a danger to both humans and Charles (not to mention anyone else, like Erik, who disagreed with him), as long as he lived and was able to access his powers. For the hundredth time, he wondered why he agreed so readily to speak with Jimmie's father. Veteran or not, what could he do, what did he know about dangerous mutants? How could the man possibly help, even if he seemed genuinely concerned? Yes, his plan to get them to their destination undetected is working well, but that is no guarantee that once he learns what they are up against that the man will continue to be helpful. Erik's mind spins in loops, now here, now there, and once again, Charles enters his mind, willing it to calmness while they wait for the connecting flight.

Another plane, another flight, and they are at Logan Airport, picking up the baggage, when a woman's voice shouts: "JIMMIE!" They turn as one, to see a lady with an auburn bee-hive hairdo, simple make-up, a blue cloth coat and a bright welcoming smile, waving a gloved hand as if she were on parade, rushing over to them, and enveloping their guide in a loving hug. Lifting up his head, Jimmie grins and starts the introductions: "Ma, this here is Miss Raven, the tall guy over there is Lehnsherr, and this guy over here, this, he's, well, this is Charles," Jimmie ends in an embarrassed rush. He continues: "Everybody, this is my Ma, Mrs. Maggie Andolini." Jimmie's mother beams at her guests, and quickly does her best to make them welcome: an exclamation of welcome and hug for Raven, an exchanged enthusiastic "How do you do!" with a hearty handclasp between Charles and the lady, finally a continental bow "Enchante, and it's Erik, please" as Erik raises the dazed woman's hand...and gets lightly smacked in the nose, since Maggie, never having had her hand kissed and unaware of the protocol involved, tries to 'help' by jerking her hand up towards Erik's mouth. For a second, everyone is stunned, then Erik begins to laugh, and the others chime in, Maggie trying to sincerely apologize while giggling. They arrive at the parking lot without further incident, and pile into Mrs. Andolini's station wagon, settling in for the last leg of the journey.

After she and Jimmie exchange some local news, Maggie nervously clears her throat and asks timidly, "umm, well, you'll be staying at our place, of course, we've a farm and plenty of room, but did Jimmie tell you about his sister?"

"No, Ma, is Chihiro back from the hospital?"

"Yes, so let me tell them about her, ok?"

Another deep breath, and Maggie rushes out: "When my husband came back from the war, he'd already befriended a little orphan girl...it took years, but finally we were able to bring her over for schooling and treatment. She was at Hiroshima, you know." Silence as the words sink in. "She's ours now, it's been official for a while, she's had surgery after surgery to repair some of the damage and to help with her appearance, but she is still so very shy around people. Some know-nothings treat her like a _monster _just because she looks different, like she's got the plague just because she was injured! Imagine! Not that her appearance isn't startling, the scarring is, well, _horrible, _just horrible. But please, you all seem like very nice people, you've befriended Jimmie and all, do try to give her a chance, even if she IS Japanese. I know it's hard not to hold a grudge, so many lost family and friends in the war, but she was such a tiny child, a babe in arms during Pearl Harbor, she's never harmed a soul a day in her life, none of that could have possibly been her fault, anymore than it was yours or mine."

"Madam, I", Charles starts.

"Maggie"

"Maggie, I assure you, we are the last people who would judge someone solely upon appearances. In fact, we may wind up startling Chihiro (never mind yourself) with some of the things we can do."

"Really? I'd like to see that...my husband, Frank, has been extremely mysterious lately, and he's promised us that we'd understand when you all arrived...and here we are!"

They've reached the edge of a small town, and are going up a dirt drive to a slightly ramshackle white with purple trim Victorian farmhouse, and past it into a barn-garage, complete with a friendly shaggy mutt charging towards them, strangely half-bobbed tail wagging furiously. While the dun-colored creature makes fast friends with Raven, the gents get their bags out of the vehicle, and follow Maggie up the stairs, across the porch and through the screen door into the mud-room, where everyone is divested of their coats and baggage, and then ushered formally into the front parlor.

Once everyone is seated, a pot of coffee brewing and a kettle on the boil (Maggie is dying to try the gift of a tin of Darjeeling, having never even heard that there was more than one type of tea), the lady of the house, staving off awkwardness, begins to make conversation.

"So! Did you have a nice trip?"

"Wonderfully easy, Maggie, I've never been to this part of the country before, so the scenery was very novel," Charles easily chirps up.

"I've never been farther west than Pennsylvania, Charles never takes me anywhere," Raven teases.

"Hardly so, dear sister, you'll give this poor woman the impression that I lock you away in a tower the live-long day!"

"And he could too! Ma, you should see where they live, it's a castle, a real castle!" Jimmie interjects enthusiastically.

"A castle? In New York, I thought your father said? Don't you mean back home in England?"

"No, Jimmie does mean what he says, our New York home is quite imposing, especially on first glance, but except for my days at Oxford and for several years in London when I was young before the Blitz, I was born and raised in New York. However, my mother was British and spoke with an accent, and several of the servants were also British, thus even when State-side I never lost the accent. Raven, on the other hand, is much younger and never went to Britain until I pursued my Oxford studies, so she never really picked it up."

"Tush, Charles! I can sound as posh as you when so EV-var I wish." adds Raven with a head-toss worthy of the Queen herself.

Before the siblings can begin to quarrel, a soft accented voice floats in from another room: "Mother Maggie? To come in, may I please? Oh, and the water boils."

Maggie jumps up: "Now you all just sit tight, we'll be right back!" A few minutes later, and she re-enters, baring a tray with the hot tea and coffee, while a short young woman in a long sleeved pink dress, face hidden by her bowed head and a curtain of raven tresses, has another tray with the rest of the items needed. Erik moves to take the tray from Maggie, while Jimmie grabs for the younger woman's burden and smiles at her, a gentle: "Hey, Chihiro!" in greeting.

As they all straighten, Maggie slips her arms around the young lady's shoulders and proudly announces: "Everyone? This is Chihiro. Sweetie, these are Jimmie's new friends: Raven, Charles and Erik." The Japanese girl bows to the group and shyly pulls her hair back; they can see her face, right side ravaged and pulled by puckered scars that at best look as if someone had ironed chenille fabric on her: "Very pleased, most pleased, to meet you all. I am Chihiro," stealing herself for the various negative reactions that her injuries usually bring, but still, she smiles and hopes for better.

And for once, her faith is rewarded. Erik moves first, taking her hand in both of his, his eyes locked on hers, a soft smile gracing his face, his murmured greeting: "The pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle," enough to put a cherry blossom pink blush on her uninjured cheek. Then Raven blinks a bit rapidly, but smiles and squeezes Chihiro's arm, "Great to meet you! I'm so happy you're a girl...I mean I'm surrounded by guys and it's annoying!" which has the other young woman stifling a giggle. Finally, Charles comes forward, gifting her with a smile so sincerely bright that it would put the sun to shame, adding: "So very pleased to meet you, Jimmie never told us how gracious and graceful you are." Maggie relaxes and adds: "See? Told you they'd be nice people; Jimmie wouldn't bring them home if they weren't."

* * *

><p>The entire group has moved to the kitchen, all formally forgotten, as Jimmie glibly reveals their cover story:<p>

"Ma, Pop was telling you right. We're looking for a place to move out to, a farm or maybe that old base I worked at last year," (Jimmie is proud of the way he says the phrase without becoming sick to his stomach), "some place for kids who aren't good in school, but maybe they could use a trade, and some place that's outta the way, so people will leave 'em alone."

"Are these good kids? Not more delinquents like Swede and Butch, I hope, we've too many of that type around as it is."

"No, Ma, nothing like that...umm, Ma? Maybe you and Chihiro sit down? Now, just remember, they aren't space aliens or anything, they're people, just like us, but special...Raven, maybe you start?"

Raven quietly stands, smiles reassuringly at her audience, and changes, first into Jimmie, then into Maggie, and finally into her blue self: "This is what I really look like."

Chihiro, shy and reserved, looks on in wonder, says nothing, but half reaches out to Raven, as if wanting to touch, to see if she's real.

Maggie, stunned, says something utterly cryptic: "Fugate...you're a Fugate, just like me."

"What?" simultaneously blurt the other half dozen people in the room.

"Yes, yes that's right." Maggie shakes herself, asserts with a bit of pride: "My grandmother is Luna Fugate Stacy, and she's as blue as a grape, as blue, as well, you are! But her hair is brown, not red, white now, and she can't change into other people, but she and a bunch of her cousins and and I think her father or grandfather? Not to mention a few Stacys and Ritchies and a Coombs or two. Blue as a berry" Maggie nods for emphasis. "That must mean you're family; only the Fugates and their people are blue, well except for some Eskimos and Indians. Do you know your family tree? Are your parents or grandparents from Kentucky? But this is amazing! And and and you change into other people, color and all, I can hardly credit my eyes! Oh dear me, I'm babbling like a brook. Forgive me please! I don't mean to offend, but you are so so different, you're amazing! And ALL of you can do this? Are all of you blue too?"

"No," Charles interjects, "we all have different abilities. Raven shape-shifts, while I have telepathy, and that means I can, well, for lack of a better term, read your mind, and speak to you, mind to mind. Thusly." And Charles' polite mannerism kicks in, fingers to temple and to the room at large he thinks:

_Maggie, I assure you, no one is offended by your reaction. Indeed, we could not have been more pleased that you find us to be as human as yourself._

"And why wouldn't I? You still have to breathe and eat and drink and sleep...'If I prick you, you will bleed, if I tickle you, you will laugh, and if I poison you, you will die' to paraphrase the Bard. No reason not to think you're human. I'm a licensed practical nurse, and I've read a lot of National Geographic, along with the medical literature. I've seen plenty of strange versions of humanity." Turning to Erik, she asks: "Would you tell me what you can do? If you wouldn't mind?"

For answer, the tea pot is lifted and the tea poured. Charles mentally adds: _She takes 2 lumps, no milk. _Erik manipulates the sugar with the tongs, stirs the cup, and by the gold trim is able to lift cup and saucer (and doesn't even rattle the spoon when she yips) into Maggie's waiting hands. She laughs, "My, what a pair you two make! I hardly know what to say, except thank you!"

* * *

><p>The front door opens and crashes shut.<p>

"Hey! Where's everybody?" And in stumps what must be Jimmie's Pop. Frank Andolini is a shorter version of his son: black haired, stocky, bandy-legged, dark eyes brimming with mischief, weathered face with a typical Mediterranean look, a nose that has gone a few rounds on the streets of Jersey City, with a limp and a voice to match, he sees his wife first. Maggie comes over and pulls Raven with her: "Frank, you'll never guess, she may be a Fugate! Wait 'til you see her shape-shift, it's a marvel to behold! And the boys are wonderful too, but where are my manners, Raven, this is my Frank, and here is Erik, and over there is Charles..."

"Miss Raven, how you doin'? And you, Lehnsherr, heard a lot, how you doin'?" Frank turns to Charles, ready to greet him...instead, he shrieks.

Shrieks.

As if he's seen a ghost...or perhaps, something too painful to be borne.

All the sound in the room, stops. Stops as if the entire room had been transported to the void of space.

Then the sound changes to another sound; a sound-concept filled with utter loss and love – a sound that could summon from beyond the grave:

"_FANCY!" _

Without moving, (not a soul in the room, not even Charles, could say that he moved) Frank launches himself into Charles, hanging on to the younger man as if the elder was clinging to his heart and his sanity, covering his face with frantic kisses, muttering Italian endearments, tears unacknowledged pouring down both their faces. Charles can _feel _whom he is supposed to be, and all he can do, under the sheer weight of Frank's projections, is hang on until the veteran calms.

* * *

><p>AN:

Maggie is quoting from The Merchant of Venice, Shylock's famous speech.

Information regarding the Blue Fugates of Troublesome Creek, Kentucky, can be found in several articles, the main source being an article in the journal Science 82, Nov. 1982, by Cathy Troast, based upon the studies of Dr. Madison Cawein and his published work in the Archives of Internal Medicine, April 1964.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: First, my thanks go out to addictedtodance, xxxLovely Insanity xxx, Katherine Moonhawk, tefftmeister for favoriting and random4ever for favoriting and reviewing, your insights were much appreciated.

Second, my continuing gratitude to ChristianGateFan, WingedWolf121 and Gene for being the stalwart betas they are.

This and the next few Chapters contain the History portion of the tale. Except for a few details that I am stretching to get the fellas where and when I need them to be, and a few tweaks of some of the incidents, these are the true stories of some of the men who lived, some who died and those who survived in the Pacific theater during World War II. At the end of each Chapter, I will clarify and distinguish the historical from the fictional.

Please take the M rating seriously. What happened to these men should not have happened to anyone or anything, anywhere, anytime. On a lighter note, there are some acronyms that hide some bad words...

I do not own the Xmen, nor the historical soldiers, sailors, pilots or marines of WWII.

**TYPOS corrected 4-8-2012**

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><p>Chapter 8 - Fancy This<p>

Frank had sent the womenfolk away. He'd rocked and hugged Chihiro tightly, given Raven a twenty and a kiss on the forehead: "Dis here's for you an' Chihiro. Go out, have some fun, hit da movies. Only do me a favor; pretend to be my son Angelo. We got plenty of shots, you can see what he looks like easy, an' dis ways, all the mooks in town'll run in the udder direction. If somebody's got da nerve to talk to you, just grunt an' nod, Angie's ain't big on gabbing, an' Maggie'll do all the talkin'. Now, shoo! Me an' the boys got a lot to say to each udder." With his hands wrapped around both of Maggie's as he kissed them over and over, he gently led them out of the kitchen. And he refused to say another word until the front door closed.

The older man let out a sigh. "I didn't wanna send dem away, but what else am I gonna do? Dere's tings I gotta say dat ain't fit for a lady's ears. And worse, dey'd break her heart." He looks around as if at a loss...as if he were lost. " 'course, after DAT little stunt I pulled," throws up his left hand, shakes his head ruefully, "I mean she ain't stupid. Still, maybe, she'll tink...Idunno, maybe sum'in else. You know?" he stares hopefully at Charles.

"I don't know, Frank, truly I don't. I have no idea what she's made of all this. I can tell you that she grieves for you, and I didn't need my powers to see that. I also know," adds Charles quietly, "that she'd be better served if she heard it all from you, instead of continuing to live under a fog of ignorance and misconception."

A grunt, " 'Fraid you'd say dat." Frank looks around, straightens his back and shakes his head to clear it: "Com'mere," he gestures, "let's go into my den."

Charles is pulled in, Frank's arm locked around his shoulder, leaving the others to follow. Jimmie has always had the utmost faith in his father, and was overall an obedient son, so whenever Frank has said 'jump' in the past, Jimmie never failed to do as he was told. So he follows without question, but he jerks his head towards the den for Erik's benefit and whispers: "Don't worry, Pop knows what he's doin', he won't hurt our-er-um-your Charles. Not at all."

Erik can hardly acknowledge Jimmie's reassurance; all he knows is one minute he was being introduced to a man who strongly reminded him of his own father, (not in looks, but in his honest, forthright manner), and in the next, he sees his Charles being cossetted and cuddled by someone who looked both like he'd aged a hundred years in a second, and like he'd found his lost soul. At a loss for coherent thought, never mind words, Erik trails behind, utterly bewildered, his usual belligerence and jealousy where Charles is concerned numbed.

The veteran limps the way into a rounded side room at the base of one of the turrets. The bay window lightened a dark wood paneled room featuring an old cabinet radio, a 'hi-fi' stereo phonograph, a brown La-Z-Boy, a metal pole lamp, a large oak desk and chair, and a single bed. Two other doors hide a staircase going to the rest of the turret rooms, and a walk-in closet.

"Siddown boys. Jimmie, da chair, Erik, my chair, an' Little Fancy, I need you here by me..." indicates the place next to him on the bed, "I ain't getting' tru dis widdout you by my side. Erik," Frank's hollow dark-eyed stare pierces Erik, who has been too stunned by Frank's strange actions to protest, "I know dis is weird and drivin' you crazy. I know dis, 'cause I seen what I seen between you two. But I swore a vow, A VOW, (throws his right hand, index extended, heavenward) to take care of Little Fancy, to love and protect him like my own, _my own_ " (brings his left hand sharply down on the bed for emphasis) "and dis, my bambino, my Little Blue Eyes, my Little Fancy has been lost to me for too long." Frank continues to hold Erik's gaze, willing him to understand, "You will have him for all your life, I only need him for today. Sit!" Such is Frank's command of the moment, at the flick of the farmer's wrist, all three young men do as they are bid.

"Now, little Blue-Eyes, what do you know of me?" asks the elder, as he gently tousles Charles' hair out of his eyes.

"Everything now, Uncle. Everything."

"Good! You can help me wid dis. You can help me explain."

"_Uncle_?" ask a bewildered Jimmie and a half-angry, half stunned Erik, simultaneously.

"Uncle!" affirms Frank, clapping Charles lightly on the shoulder. "You know," he continues, "I've known your secret for twenty years now, ever since da night before our first interrogation..."

"Uncle, you are starting in the middle. Begin at the beginning, if you would."

"Yeah, dat's right." Pause. "At da beginning."

* * *

><p>But before he begins, Frank asks Erik to bring his footlocker out of the closet. Opening the locks and buckles, he says: "Dis'll help you see what I seen. Dis'll help."<p>

With a grunt of exertion, Frank opens the lid. Inside, the trunk is divided in two sections: a removable 5 inch deep compartmentalized tray at the top, and the remaining 2' by 5' space. At the top are three distinct sections. The left compartment has medals and ribbons of a military nature; the center, a photo album; the right, a few more medals and some jewelry.

"Bunch a tings I been keepin' for you." Frank says slowly, looking down at the contents. "I had Fancy's will and everyting; said that if your mom died, and Fancy was dead, I was your legal guardian, and supposed to give you this stuff, and make sure you were cared for..." his voice fades, "make sure you were _safe_", voice dropping even lower, "but dat sonofabitch Marko wouldn't let me in, wouldn't let me near you..."

Frank's voice trails off, and Charles gently nudges him: "Uncle, dearest Uncle, please don't be so hard upon yourself. You did all that you could for me, and both Kurt and Cain are no longer to be reckoned with. Please, do start at the beginning; tell them, tell me, 'who is Fancy?' "

"Yeah, yeah, dat's right. You might not remember much, even wid dat extra large noggin of yours," Frank ruffles Charles' hair as if he were petting the dog, "but lucky we got pictures." He pulls out the album and opens to a formal black & white photo of about 30 men in uniform. "Dese are my squadron: da names are written on da back, see dis one here?" Frank points to an officer standing at the end of the row. "See howse his uniform is different? He's a Brit, joint assignment from the RAF to train da rest of us. And dat's me," points to the man squatting at the end of his row, directly below the British officer, 'and dat's our cousin Joey, joined up wid me, right after Pearl Harbor." Removing the picture from the tabs, he flips it to the back, "Now Little Fancy, read out da name, here."

And Charles read out: "Francis Xavier Calvert, heir to Lord Baltimore, January, 1942, Oahu, Hawaii."

Charles passes the black and white picture to the other two who both squint and flick their eyes back and forth between the photo and Charles, and Frank says: "Dat ain't a great shot, a little bit small, but dis one is, and ain't no mistake." He takes the print back, replaces it and turns the page.

Erik and Jimmie have left their chairs to see the album better. As Frank proudly turns the leaf, the three younger men gasp in unison: there before them, is a full color glossy portrait of 'Charles'! Same electric blue eyes, same red smiling lips, same dark brown hair, ends just beginning to curl,...the only difference was the light tan on the face, with a dusting of freckles across the cheeks and nose. Those cheeks were sporting a blush that the camera captured effortlessly, since that 'Charles' was caught in the midst of buttoning his work uniform on.

"1st Lt. Francis Xavier Calvert, on dat day, was just helping da gals out wid his laundry. Every girl in the islands was nutsy koo-koo about 'im, and one of the reporters for Stars 'n Stripes had a Gal Friday who was sweet on 'im, and she wheedled a camera and a 20 shot roll of Kodachrome offa her boss, an' she shot the whole entire roll on us that day. Gave her boss some malarkey about doin' a cover story on Allied co-operation. All she wanted was to get lots of pin-ups for the WACs, Him bein' a lord an' DE most eligible bachelor in da Seven Seas." Chuckles and continues, "Sose anyways, she gimme da whole roll o'prints...said she wasn't sorry to use expensive professional color film on us, said it would be a crime not to" (Frank makes his voice high and light, straining to imitate a posh East Coast accent) " 'preserve those blue eyes for posterity.' "

There were shots of the boys running wind sprints, folding laundry, swimming, surf fishing, building a bonfire. Slowly, Frank flipped to each shot, lingering on one that showed a young Frank, deeply tanned and stripped to the waist, dog tags flashing on his chest, his arm slung round the Charles look-a-like, both grinning like Cheshire Cats. "Best day of my life, or just about" he summed up. His left hand stroked the edges of the photograph, while his right gently squeezed and rubbed Charles' shoulder, saying nothing for a bit.

He sighed, and resumed his tale. "Me 'n Joey went wid my old man to join up da day after Pearl Harbor. Marines wouldn't take us 'cause we were a little too short, you know? But da Army? Pfftt! If you could see lightning and hear tunder, you was in. But dey wouldn't take de old man; too old dey said, and him bein' a Master Machinist, was a needed occupation. But they took me 'n Joey, and 'cause we were locals outta Juhzee City, we got sent to Fort Dix an' did our boot camp dere. Now you gotta know all about our good friends, Private Snafu, Seaman Tarfu and their brodder, Private Fubar, 'cause lemme tell you, dey had it out for us from the get go." Frank waved his free hand to stop the questions that were about to drop: "SNAFU means 'Situation Normal, All Fucked Up'; TARFU is 'Totally And Royally Fucked Up' 'n FUBAR stands for 'Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition'...all tree showed up from da day we enlisted."

"Like dis: usual, it took weeks to get shipped to boot camp. Us? We signed up on Monday, we shipped to Dix on Wednesday. Why? Dey put our names on dis list dat got mixed in wid the guys what had already been drafted two monts before. I was 25, married, wid Angelo a toddler and Maggie was gonna have anudder," (Frank points at Jimmie for emphasis), "sose I gotta get packin' willy-nilly. Lucky, Maggie's Uncle had died," and Frank scowls, jerking his hand over, "no, I don't mean dat it was lucky he died! I mean it was lucky dat Maggie was already out here wid Angie, nursing her Aunt an helpin' to run dis place. I didn't havta worry about feeding dem until the first paycheck (which didn't get to me 'til I hit Hawaii, go figure). Sose anyways, I get on da bus wid Joey, and we get to Fort Dix and we do basic, and DEN, dey found out me 'n Joey were machinists too, built trucks at the old Mack plant, so dey want us fixin' all dem planes what was blown up at Pearl."

"So six weeks after I sign up, I'm sittin' on da tarmac in Hawaii, waitin' to get bunked up, hungry, tursty, half dead on my feet, Joey gets lost trying to find the head, when dis really young fella sorta strolls up. An' right away I seen dat he's different. I mean, he's got brown hair dat's already needin' a trim, but he's real neat, and he's got dem blue eyes like a pair a rocks outta Tiffany's window. But den see, he's wearing dis RAF uniform, and it's gots louies on it (first lieutenant's insignia), sose I figures I gotta get up and salute sose I don't wind up in da klink, and you know what? Dis guy says (in da most posh Brit voice I ever hoid): 'My dear chap, do stay seated. 'Tis far too hot to stand on ceremony, well after tea-time, and I'm not your officer after all.' An' he smiles, like I'm the best friend he's ever had and he's real glad to see me! Imagine! Him, an officer - a swell, but actin' honest like a regular Joe.

DEN, he bends down an' offers me his hand 'n says: 'Name's Francis Xavier Calvert, but I'd be most pleased if you'd call me Francis.' I takes his hand, and I says: 'Name's Frank Andolini, but I'm just Frankie. Siddown, take a load off,' and I points at dis very trunk right here, 'but I ain't calling you 'Francis'; you're in America now, an' if you don't want guys tinkin' you're a snob, you gotta have a nickname, same as da rest of us. Say, you got nice manners, you sound posh but you don't act like a swell, fact, you're an alright guy...how's about 'Fancy'? ' Now he was still smiling wid dose cherry lips an' dem big baby blues just looked inta me, like he was reading me inside an' out, an' his smile got bigger, an' den he said: 'Fancy is as fancy does, I suppose, and since I am e'en more the stranger than you, I shall be guided by your expertise. Fancy it 'tis then! And thank'ee.' An' just like dat, he was Fancy for da rest of his life."

"Now, two of us, we're jabberin' like old friends; he axes me about my family an' where I come from, an' I tell'em about Maggie, my baby 'n one on da way, da old man, Joey, Juhzee City, an' I shows him snapshots I got in my wallet. Den he pulls out dis pocket watch, here," and Frank grabs a gold watch from the trunk, and pops the cover open, "tells me about his older sister, Sharon, what got hitched to his friend - a hotshot rocket scientist named Brian Xavier...and dere little boy, who had the eyes his Dad n' him gave' em. See?" Frank passes round the watch which contains a sepia tinted formal portrait of a proudly smirking dark haired young man, a coolly composed blonde, and the little boy who was both a small edition of his father and a dead ringer for his uncle. "Even den, I could josh wid Fancy, but see, I ain't no Jimmy Durante, sose the best I could say is: 'hey! He looks like you, you guys related?' Funny, but Fancy says dey are! See Brian was a second cousin on his mom's side, so folks were always tinkin' dat Brian 'n him were brodders...acted like it too, more den most in-laws."

"Den up pops Joey, stuck like gum to a pair of MPs, an' a pissed-off looking Colonel. But before dey can say a ting, Fancy jumps, hauls me up, an' salutes sharp, an' says: 'Col. Stamford, as always a pleasure to see you. I see Private, that you have managed to locate the good Colonel for me. Splendid work! Knew that you would locate him so we could get you and my new batman squared away. Colonel, I am most grateful for your time in arranging for these men to assist me. Admiral Mountbatten and General MacArthur were telling me just the other day how vital our inter-military cooperation would be, and finding me such able assistants on such short notice will be part of my report to HQ, most certainly.' Fancy gives da confused Eagle his best smile, grabs Joey an'...'Here now, Joseph, your duffel and trunk are there, I shall grab one end of Frank's trunk, you shall grab your bag and an end, and Frank, into the breech with you, and grab both trunks, and thus we are ready. My dear Colonel, if you would just have these gentlemen guide us to my quarters, as I am most horribly lost, I would be forever grateful. Ta-ta!' An he pulls us along like baby ducks on a string."

Frank begins to laugh: "Yep, dat was da beginnin' for me 'n Fancy. Pulled our fat outta da fire, make no mistake." Frank scratches his head: "Still don't know what Joey did ta make the Eagle so mad...'cause once we get t'know 'im, Col. Stamford wasn't too bad neider. Made me 'n Fancy official; he was my officer, I was his 'batman' – a batman was a Brit officer's personal assistant, like his whatchamacallit, his squire or esquire. I'd do whatever Fancy needed, whatever he asked, but he never asked for much. I was supposed to shine his shoes, take care of his uniform 'n stuff, run errands, drive 'im around. But mostly, he did tings for himself, you know? Only ting he'd let me do constant was drive – figured since he drove on the left, when da rest of us drove on da right, it'ud be safer dat way."

"Uncle," Charles interrupts quietly, "when did you realize that you were in love with him?"

"Cut right to da chase, eh Little Blue Eyes? Well, I wasn't to know for a long long time; go figure, everybody else knew before we did, but tell you sumptin, I was in love from da moment I laid eyes on 'im. Even Joey saw, and he ain't de sharpest tool in da shed. Funny, before you showed, I'ud not said dat, or at least, told you sumptin like we were 'best friends' or 'he was my officer'. Guys like me, we don't talk about 'love' you know, not even to da wife, right? But I ain't lyin' to you; I ain't dat stupid ta lie to a mind reader. I will not insult your Uncle's memory by makin' him less dan he was ta me. Not in front of you" a squeeze of Charles' shoulder. "Not in front of Erik." Next thing, Erik feels a heavy, callused hand land on his shoulder. "You boys are famiglia, so you deserve to know da trut, no beatin' around da bush."

Just then, Charles' stomach rumbles loudly in the room. "Umm, hungry?" The veteran asks as the three younger men laugh. "Let's grab some sandwiches, an' I'll tell you about da rest after you've eaten." Frank looks at this young man, _his_ young man, the lost boy that was found, and he swore silently to Fancy, "I won't let you down Blue Eyes, I won't let you down."

* * *

><p>AN:

I do not know if there were any instances of officers or soldiers being traded or swapped between the various allied nations, except in the movies (Bridge on the River Kwai comes to mind) but I needed to get American Frank with British Fancy, and that was the most logical move. Oh, and RAF stands for Royal Air Force, and MPs are Military Police.

Col. Stamford is a shout-out to my second fandom, Sherlock Holmes (movies) & Sherlock – Mike Stamford seems to be the best matchmaker since Dolly Levi, and since he did such a good job there, why not here? And Eagle is the emblem of a colonel's rank.

There really was (and still is) a New Jersey Army base called Fort Dix, and they've been prepping and shipping out the troops since before WW2. Basic training usually does take 6 weeks or so, and the mix up that sent the fellas out so fast would not have normally occurred even in wartime. But most of the troops bound for the Pacific did spend time in Hawaii, and much of the pilot training took place in Oahu.

The position of batman was part gofer, part valet, part bodyguard and was found in most of the European armies, and the Americans had the same position, but it was less servant like than the others.

Admiral Louis Mountbatten was the British Naval Chief covering the British Navy in the Pacific theater, while General Douglas MacArthur was the US General in charge of the Philippines (in particular) and the American Army for the rest of Pacific in general.

Next Chapter, we get deeper into the War, and how Fancy and Frank wound up in a 3 year long nightmare.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N:

1st : My apologies! I was trying to get the last of this Chapter down, and wondering how much was too much to stuff in one Chapter, when another plot bunny for another fandom assaulted me, and I found that the second story would not leave me alone. That, RL (of course), and I am a very slow typist.

2nd : Again, many of the situations and incidents that I am speaking of are true...the characters of Frank, Jimmie and Maggie are much like people I have known personally (Frank is an amalgam of several of my parents' Italian-American friends...most of them named Frank!). The 2nd A/N at the end of this Chapter will show what really happened to some of the POWs in Japanese hands.

3rd : The tone of this Chapter changes wildly – from the characters being merry indeed, to deepest anger and sorrow. It stands as one piece because life is usually like that. There are mentions of torture here, and unfortunately, that's the part I'm not making up. If I've done my job correctly, emotions will swing. You've been warned.

4th : Many thanks to random4ever, loyal reviewer, ChristainGateFan, beta extraordinaire (and a review to boot), Gene and his beta-ing, Wolfie for cheering me on, and foreheadwoman, parrotingswan and geniecat2, for favoriting/alerting – hope this was worth the wait.

5th : The remaining canon characters belong to Stan Lee & Co., and this tale is completely for fun and not for profit.

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><p>Chapter 9 – Fancy That<p>

_Meanwhile, back at the ranch..._

Maggie Andolini was a grammar school teacher, a licensed practical nurse, a farmer, a wife and a mother. But of all the things that she was, that she had been...none of them was a fool.

So when Frank sent her and the girls away, she went with Plan B, like any good general.

"More than one way to skin a cat," she explained as they sipped soda from bottles and snacked from the cold cellar supplies, as they settled themselves comfortably in the laundry room. "We can hear every word they say from down here, and since you say your brother," Maggie directs a fond nod in Raven's direction, "won't go into peoples' heads unprovoked, if he doesn't know we're here, Frank and the rest won't have a clue."

So they listened and learned, and even without the photographs, they heard and understood the uncanny resemblance between uncle and nephew.

And then Frank's voice, rising through the heating vents: "... I was in love from da moment I laid eyes on 'im...".

The younger women snapped their heads to their elder as if they'd been on rubber bands. Maggie, closed her eyes and immediately pressed her index finger to her lips in quiet warning, and the girls waited until the gents adjourned to the kitchen before letting out a double gasp, ready to pounce with questions. A stern look silenced them before they could get started; this time, her left hand raised compelled obedience. Maggie sighed: "About time."

"What?" chimed the young pair. "What do you mean?"

"Yes, dears...about time. You see, I've known the gist about Fancy for over 20 years now. I've just been waiting for him to admit it to himself. He's never talked about the war, to me or anyone, but he still has nightmares (only when he's rundown or sick nowadays, but still). He wrote me daily letters while he was at Fort Dix and even after he was stationed in Hawaii, before he shipped out to the Philippines. He never had anything to hide, but it was always, 'Fancy this' or 'Fancy that'. Then, when they said he was missing in action, they said his officer was with him. But from the day Frank came home, it was easy to see that he wasn't the same happy-go-lucky guy I married. There was this _haunted_ look in his eyes, no matter how glad he was to see me. Joey didn't know what happened, he wasn't a prisoner, but he told me that the Nips broke him. And that's all he would say; that, and 'don't take his box away'."

Again, both girls exclaimed: "Box?"

"Box. This big black lacquer box. Never got a good look at it, don't know what was inside. I just know that for the first month he was home, he never had that box out of his arms. Wouldn't put it down to eat, to do things around the house, to hold his sons, not even to kiss me. For all I know, he slept with it, since his leg was still in a bad way and he was sleeping in the den so as not to jostle it. Finally, his father (who stayed with us until he died), had this long talk in Italian: all I caught was 'you're worse than an old woman, than your Aunt Carmela'. So he stopped walking around with the box, and I never saw it again."

Before any of the women could continue their conversation, they hear echoing down the vent shaft:

"So Erik, when you gonna make an honest woman outta my nephew?"

It was Jimmie who pulled together a meal: vegetable soup that his mother had simmering and sandwiches featuring fresh homemade bread and local cheese, along with the meats.

Since one did not speak of 'business' at the table, Frank decided to change the subject – radically.

"So Erik, when you gonna make an honest woman outta my nephew?"

The reactions are immediate: a spit-take from Jimmie to make Groucho Marx proud; Erik, choking on a mouthful of sandwich and soda, both knowing that the humans would be the death of him and thinking that he hasn't had this much liquid in his lungs since Miami Bay; and Charles, pounding on Erik's back, huffing indignantly: "Really Uncle! Why oh why does everyone insist that I must be the lass in this relationship? By George, I've had more women than the lot of you together, yet you all keep acting as if I were some adorable cuddle bunny or perhaps a puppy! I ask you, do I look adorable?" The culmination on his mounting ire is to glare around the table…and pout.

Luckily, the laughter from above stairs drowns out the laughter from below.

* * *

><p>The food break finished, the men resume their places in the den, but this time Frank is stretched out, sitting against the headboard, aching leg raised on a wedged cushion, while Charles is curled into Frank's left side, and Erik sits at the foot of bed closest to his love, and Jimmie reverse straddles the desk chair, as close to his former captives as he dares.<p>

Erik is quiet; as straight forward and honest as he is, Frank mightily confuses all of Erik's deeply held beliefs. For one, human soldiers (even former soldiers) should see mutants like him as weapons: dangerous weapons. And act accordingly. Yet Frank, clearly no fool, understands their potential for destruction but accepts them completely, without reservation. He treats them as long-lost family; he is even proud of Charles' abilities, seeing mutant powers as gifts. For another, humans, especially human males, should see his love for Charles as a sin, an abomination. And act accordingly. Instead, Frank completely accepts it, to the point where he can joke about it. And not in a bad way. And it seems that Frank and he have a great deal in common that way: neither of them had ever loved a man before, and no other man was/is attractive to them.

But Erik's musing was cut short by the sound of a clearing throat; Jimmie began to stutter: "Umm, Pop? Er, um, I, um, jeeze, I "

"Spit it out facheem, spit it out."

"Didja ever do 'im? Does Ma know? She doesn't act like she hates you."

Frank sighs and casts a bleary eye on his youngest son: "Nah, she don't know...and no, I didn't do 'im. Not 'cause I didn't want to do 'im. After a long while, we both kinda sorta figured it out for ourselves, you know? Sose when we did, figure it out, I mean, I wanted, he wanted, we wanted, sumptin', but we weren't sure what we wanted, we didn't know what to do. An' den again, it wasn't like we could do sumptin'. We were too sick, too tired, no privacy. And if we got caught, dey'd take us away. We'd lose each udder, unless dey'd kill us, or just one outright. Make us suffer. Worse."

"But the Geneva Convention? I know the Nazis treated the prisoners of war well. So long as you didn't try to escape,.." Erik asserts, but is interrupted by Frank.

"Son, raggazzo, yes da KRAUTS took some decent care...da JAPS didn't. Dey said we were vermin, we surrendered, so we had no honor. Dey didn't believe in da Convention, so dey could ignore it. And den Tojo told all his people, kill all prisoners if da Americans get tru. Erik," and Frank stares the metalbender down, saying slowly and deliberately, "dey treated us like Jews." Frank's words left a ringing silence in the air. A moment more to allow the meaning to truly sink in, and he pushed both his body and his point forward. The faded blue denim button down comes off; so does his undershirt and then, his pants (as Charles sides over to give him room). He keeps a set of dog tags, a set of odd brown wool tags on either end of braided strings, and his underwear on.

They can all see it now. Frank's body looks like a badly done cross-stitch project: scars, calcium deposits from poorly healed wounds, dozens of white lines that can only be made by canes or rods striking flesh, and worst of all, a large divot where his right calf should be, and every sign that the leg had been broken and miss-set, causing the leg itself to shorten by nearly an inch. "Kinda looks like you two, don't it?" Frank says softly, boring a hole into Erik's soul. "Believe me when I tell you, I know what it was like, I know what you've been tru. 'Cause I been tru it too. Only ting dey didn't do was_ do _me or Fancy. Only ting I'm missing is da numbers," points to the middle of his left arm, "but I got dis little souvenir instead. Dis mark's" showing an ugly purple welt, like a polio shot gone wrong, "where dey shot me an' Fancy up wid some 'medicine' dey called it. 'Medicine' my ass! We was helpless for hours from da pain. It was just to see if it would kill us, fast or slow an' how much it would hurt. When you were hurt or sick in camp, you never ever went to see da Jap 'doctor'. You went to see our guy, Pierce his name was, and even if he had nuttin' to treat you wid, it was better dan what dat Jap torturer had ready for you."

"Oh my God, Pop, why didn't you tell us? You never said a word, you" but the rest of Jimmie's words were cut off by the slicing motion of Frank's right hand and a deadly rumble:

"Would it have stopped you from **doing** Charles if I did?"

It is now Charles' turn to cut the conversation off at the pass as he swiftly rises to his feet, whirling to face the veteran: "Frankie, look at me. Look. At. Me. I tell you truly, it wasn't his fault; trust me on this! Have I ever, ahem, 'steered you wrong'?" he quizzes in his poshest accent yet.

"Never, my (pause), never."

"Then get dressed and let us get on with the tale. Where were we? Ah yes, Oahu and the training."

"Yeah, yeah, okay...but one more ting first?" An intense psychic conversation between Frank and Charles follows, which makes Erik more and more uneasy. There's something different, something off – the way Charles is looking, the way he's standing...a certain set to his shoulders that's new. Like he's at parade rest. And Charles' presence in his mind is both less and more; less power, if you will, and more 'Charles-ness' holding him, telling him everything is fine without words. Erik spares a glance at Jimmie, and sees that he too has realized that something odd is going on.

The conversation ends, and Frank, dressed, sits back down, while Charles rummages in the footlocker, and carefully brings out a beautiful black lacquered box with a set of dog tags, which he lays in Frank's hands.

"Charles, go make us tea. I'll wait for da rest for when you get back in."

As Charles scurries off to do as bid, the old soldier sighs: "Dis is da hard part. Boys, com'ere." Erik and Jimmie scoot closer. He shows them the box, clutching it securely in his rough hands.

Roughly the size of a shoe box, it has a painting (white paint only) of a mountain, and beneath Japanese characters running up and down, two small notations and a name with a date: "Francis Xavier Calvert – 6. 8. 1945".

"Dis...is Fancy." And tough cheerful Frank begins to sob.

* * *

><p>AN: Here comes the history:

Frank's entire speech to Erik is documented truth: While the Geneva Conventions (there were 3 in place at the time) detailed the treatment and duties of various persons in time of war (the 3rd Convention was specifically created to codify the humane treatment of prisoners of war) the nations of the world had to agree to them, like any other treaty; however, while Japan signed the 3rd Convention, it never ratified it. So it was never binding, and thus they were free to ignore it. The Allied prisoners and the civilian populations under the Japanese Imperial Army were treated in ways you wouldn't treat an ant, never-mind anything higher up the food chain. And yes, the camp doctors very often played mad scientist, and 'mercy killings' where sick prisoners were given lethal injections were documented. See Laura Hillenbrand's biography of Louis Zamperini, "Unbroken" pages 186-7 and page 208. Erik's confusion about POW treatment is understandable, as the American Veterans' Administration put the percentage death rate of Americans held by Germany and Italy at 1%, while the official death rate was 37% for Americans held by the Japanese. Unbroken, page 315. But I don't know the names of any POWs who were doctors, so I did a shout out to a favorite old TV series. And yes, I'll tell you all about the box in the next Chapter.


End file.
